Elegant Madness
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: [University AU] "He's a whirlwind, and I mean that literally, 'cause I've once seem him pace around the room so fast he sent papers flying." John meets Sherlock when he is in the midst of his drug addiction, and tries his best to help him through it.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this idea's been floating around in my head for the longest time, and I've finally started writing it out. I'm super insecure about it, which is why it's not complete, but if you guys enjoy it then I'll probably continue writing.

In this universe I've made John and Sherlock around the same age, and I've also added a few OC's just to be John's flatmates in university. It's not been beta'd or Brit-picked, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

Warnings for mature language, drug use, drug addiction, and mild violence.

* * *

The streetlights were dim, most shops were closed, and not a soul passed over the pavement, save for one John Watson, taking uneven steps with his hands shoved in his pockets. He was just at the edge of eighteen years old; too young to understand everything, too old not to try to. His sandy brown hair fell above his unfocused storm blue eyes, and he walked with the curious gait of a man stumbling into a new world.

John looked at his surroundings in a bitterly blissful daze, smiling almost eerily at the lonely streetlamps and empty storefronts. The alcohol that was flooding freely through his system made him feel strangely at peace, and even though he hadn't the faintest clue where he was, he actually felt like he belonged.

This unconventional nirvana began to fade when John heard the faintest echo of angry voices from a nearby alley. He mused about alleys for a moment, thought about the odd little slices of nowhere that they were. Just a nothing trapped in between somethings, much like himself, he thought. His odd sense of empathy for these dank alleyways led him to step closer to one, closer to the noise.

The faraway shouts became louder, followed by the tumble of heavy footsteps, and John hadn't even noticed he was walking towards the commotion rather than away from it before it was too late.

Three large men with evil scowls plastered to their faces were in the middle of a heated argument that had obviously already threatened to turn physical, and it was to their utmost pleasure to see a drunken, lost John wander into their territory.

Before John could react, the first man ran at him. He tackled him to the ground with brute force, and John let out a pained grunt as his head was introduced to the cold pavement. The other two men quickly joined in, and roughed him up as they searched him for anything potentially valuable they could snatch.

John decided, albeit in a drunken haze, that he would not go without a fight, and so he punched and kicked wildly in the air, hoping to make contact with his assailants' flesh. Unfortunately, John's resilience did nothing but fuel the men's anger, and they switched from nicking his things to using him as a punching bag.

* * *

Nestled in the dark maze of alleys, away from the streets, Sherlock stood with another man under a grungy orange light. He leaned against the brick wall, and his blue eyes appeared gold as he lit up his cigarette. The other man was silhouetted by the shadows, his features barely visible.

"Prices are going up; it's ridiculous," Sherlock complained in a voice gruff from the smoke.

"But you'll still pay." The other man chimed knowingly.

"Obviously,"

"Does the smoking help then? With the, y'know, the high,"

"No."

"What's it help with then, mate?"

Sherlock took a long drag. "Nothing."

From somewhere behind him, Sherlock could hear the unmistakable sounds of a fight going on. He furrowed his brow and turned to his friend.

"You hear that?" he asked.

"Dunno what'cha mean."

"I swear I heard—"

"You're always on about somethin' though aren't you? I'll never get it."

Sherlock ignored the man and focused on the noises. Whoever was at the receiving end of this scuffle was clearly not putting up much of a fight. Perhaps it was the cocaine buzzing rapidly through his veins, but suddenly Sherlock had the insatiable need to go over and investigate. He stood up straighter, felt powerful and important, and decided to use his artificial surge of energy to go and take charge.

"I've gotta go," he said quickly, stomping on his cigarette as he sped away.

* * *

Sherlock stopped in his stride and peered around the corner. Peeking out, he could see the shapes of three men violently pelting a young man who looked to be around his age. He sucked in a breath of icy night air and launched himself at the thugs.

Sherlock took the first man down by yanking on his shoulder, spinning him around and smashing his head against his.

"Moron," Sherlock muttered as the man fell.

The two others didn't even have a chance to take a swing at Sherlock, because in what seemed like a split second, he had punched one of them clean in the nose, hearing a satisfying crack as he went down, and had the next guy trapped in a painful headlock.

"Get out of here, right now," Sherlock hissed in his ear, "or I swear I will knock the wind out of you so fast you will never take another single breath of air for granted. Do you understand?"

The man nodded as much as he could, and ran away at lightning speed as soon as he was released, along with the other two who had just gotten their bearings. All that was left now was the prone and coughing form of John on the concrete, his eyes shut tight in pain.

Sherlock could tell he was coming down off his high already, and he sank down to his knees in front of John, panting as he caught his breath.

"Hey, can you hear me?" Sherlock asked in a tone that was gentle compared to the anger that filled his previous voice.

John didn't answer, only gave a rough grunt and grasped desperately at his side.

"C'mon, say something," Sherlock urged, feeling the odd compulsion to put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I just beat the shit out of complete strangers for a complete stranger, have you got any manners?"

John groaned impatiently.

"It's half past two in the morning, you're a student, a good one, judging by the callouses on your fingers and the scuff marks on your shoes, not to mention the turn-ups on your jeans, so what the hell are you doing here?"

John just mumbled something inaudible and tried to help himself up, failing completely.

"I'd take you to hospital but I don't fancy sitting at A&E for four hours, do you?"

Sherlock could've sworn he heard a "stupid" in John's mutterings somewhere.

"Did you just call me stupid?" To Sherlock's surprise, John let out a pained chuckle.

"H-hospital," John stuttered, "please." He added.

"I'm not your chauffeur." Sherlock teased as he got out his mobile and dialed 999.

"Who are you?" John asked wistfully, his eyes wide with wonder as he stared up at this strange man.

Sherlock didn't answer, as he was busy speaking to the emergency operator on the other end. When he hung up, John was still staring at him in confusion. He pointed weakly to Sherlock's mop of raven curls.

"Hair's a mess," he stated.

"You're a mess." Sherlock countered, gently taking John's hand and putting it back down by his side. "Just hold still 'til the ambulance comes."

They had not even waited another minute before John began groaning in pain and clutching at his side again. Sherlock could tell that he had tried to put up a fight, but it was obvious by the alcohol on his breath that he was heavily intoxicated, and had been an easy target for the group of men.

It was only when John began to shiver did Sherlock notice that he wasn't even wearing a proper coat, just a flannel shirt with a hand-me-down jumper thrown over it. An odd feeling came over Sherlock then, and he felt as if he were on auto-pilot as he took off his long greatcoat and carefully laid it over John.

"You'll be alright; you just need to stay awake." Sherlock reassured.

John sighed and tried to keep his eyes open. Another minute passed before Sherlock spoke up again.

"That's a lie, you know," he said.

"What is?" John croaked.

"'You'll be alright,' it's a lie. I'm already sorry I told you that."

John's chance to respond died in his throat as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. The noise got louder very quickly, and the ambulance arrived not long after. John was ushered onto a stretcher, and Sherlock stayed behind and watched the flashing lights get smaller as they got further away. He looked down at his favourite coat and grimaced at the blood stain by the collar.

When Sherlock got back to his flat that night, he asked his landlady Mrs. Hudson, who was very good at odd things such as laundry, if she could do anything about the stain. In the end, it had taken more effort than she'd thought to get it out, and the buttonhole was frayed and worn by the time it was clean. She decided to stitch it back up with some leftover red thread she had lying around. Sherlock silently loved that little detail.

* * *

Two years, fifty-four days, and unknown amount of instant ramen noodles later, John was staring at the laptop on his desk, slurping up the last of another bowl of the quick and inexpensive meal. He glared at his unfinished essay as if it were the cause of all suffering, and decided perhaps a well-deserved break was in order. He was about to get up to put his dishes away when his door was roughly opened, and one of his flatmates tossed all of John's clean laundry onto his head, and slammed the door shut.

John grit his teeth and yanked the pair of pants off his scruffy blond hair. He fisted them in his hand, shot up and pounded his way to his flatmate's room.

"How many times, Marc, how many times?" he yelled, shaking the pair of undergarments indignantly at his friend.

"They're your clothes, mate!" Marc defended, throwing his hands up innocently.

"Oh come off it! I tell you ever sodding time, just _leave_ my clothes in the washroom, I'll get them on my own damn time!"

"Like hell you will, you'll leave 'em sittin' there like—"

"Stuff it, Marc, or I swear to god I'll nick those socks you got with those little puppies on 'em, 'cause I know they're yours, and I'll plaster them to ceiling of the chem lab!"

"I was just doing you a favour ma—"

"Do me another one, and stop throwing my laundry on my head, yeah?" John asked, his voice finally coming back down to a normal pitch. He didn't even wait for Marc to answer before he stormed off back to his room, though he could hear him mumbling something about "at least the clothes are clean."

"Need to get out of this bloody flat," John muttered to himself as he picked up the scattered items of clothing off his floor.

"Just _one_ flatmate, that'd be nice," he mused, "it's not like med school's enough stress, no let's add three other uni students to the mix. Fucking genius." He was rambling aloud still, as if it helped in his tidying up of the tiny, cramped room he claimed as his own.

His bed was just big enough for one body, covered in a dusty charcoal grey duvet that had always seemed more alluring than his research papers. John sighed, and flipped himself over onto the mattress. He rested a cool hand on his warm forehead, and took a deep breath full of stale, musty air.

Lost in his thoughts, John began to run his hand up under his thin jumper, smoothing circles over his stomach. His fingers inevitably bumped the uneven patch of skin on his left side; a scar, where a jagged rock had lodged into his side as he'd hit the ground that night, two years ago in the alley. His thoughts wandered back to that night, as they often did when he felt or saw his scar. As always, he tried to piece together a full picture of the man who'd saved him from the thugs who had it out for him.

All John could muster up was a head of dark, thick curls, an icy blue stare, and the smell of cigarettes and coffee, though mostly cigarettes. He remembered the man's voice, rough and ridged, like driving on a gravel pathway after the rain.

John was knocked out of his daydreams when he heard the familiar sound of Mike and Evan coming back from class. They'd want to vent about their god-awful professors, so John hopped out of bed and went to the sitting room to join them.

* * *

"Need to get out of this dump," John grumbled to Mike, who was absently flipping through channels on the television. They were both sunken deep into the tattered, fraying sofa as the lights from the screen lit up the small room.

"Don't like us anymore?" Mike joked, pushing his round glasses back up on his face as he giggled. John smiled a bit too.

"No, s'not that, it's just getting a bit much, you know? I've got so much schoolwork, and I swear I can't get through one paper without either Marc sending an avalanche of laundry on my head or Evan barging into my room when he's on one of his tidying raids."

"At least he _cleans_ when he's stressed eh? I'd imagine there's worse things he could do."

"Yeah yeah, but then I can never find any of my things. I keep a very organized mess, you understand."

Mike just giggled again and looked back to the telly. "Hey I'll ask around yeah? See if anyone's looking for a flatshare."

"That'd be great Mike, you're a saint," John thanked, clapping him on his shoulder.

"Not a problem. I'll find you a good flatmate, don't you worry."

* * *

John was standing in front of the mirror above the sink in the bathroom, trying not to stare at his scar as he tugged a raggedy jumper over his head. He straightened himself out, dug his phone out from his pocket and dialed his mother.

He wasn't surprised when she didn't pick up.

"Hey, mum, it's me. Just wondering how you guys are doing, y'know, since you don't phone me anymore. I'm going to—"

A loud bang on the bathroom door startled John out of his one-sided conversation.

"Get out of there Josh I need to use the loo!" Evan slurred from the other side of the door. It sounded like he was pressing his whole body up against it, still pounding sloppy knocks all over the place.

John rolled his eyes and held his hand to the speaker of the phone.

"Even drunk off your arse Evan I know you know my name's not Josh!" he yelled.

"Whatever Jared just hurry th'fuck up," he knocked one more time before leaving John to go back to his mobile.

"Sorry, mum. Like I was saying, I'm gonna be moving out of this place soon; Mike's helping me find a flatmate. My grades are pretty good, in case you were wondering…and I—"

"Oi! It's not a phone booth mate, whine to your mum somewhere else!" Evan shouted.

John let out a growl and said a rushed goodbye to his mother's voicemail. He finally let Evan in, and was reminded of just how grateful he was to be finding another place to live.

He was glad to join Mike in the sitting room, the only other person who seemed sane at the moment. Mike smiled happily up from his schoolwork that was spread on the coffee table when John came to sit next to him.

"You've got good news," John guessed.

"I think I found you a flatmate." Mike announced.

"Yeah? So what're they like? Where's the flat? How's the rent?" John asked like a young girl inquiring about her crush.

"Oh the rent's fantastic, cheaper than this place if you'd believe it. Says his landlady owes him a favour. The place isn't too far from here either,"

"I'm sensing a 'but' coming along in this conversation, Mike," John frowned.

"Well hey; you're a friendly chap, right? You get on with all sorts." Mike said nervously.

"Oh god, this guy's a nutter isn't he? You set me up with a psychopath I knew it."

"He'd probably say sociopath, but that's another conversation. He's not so bad, really. The guy's _crazy_ intelligent, you should _see_ the kinds of experiments he gets up to in the lab!"

John made a puzzled face. "The lab? Oh, so he goes here?"

Mike shook his head. "No, he's not in uni at all actually. He sneaks into the labs after hours to use the equipment."

"He what?" John snapped. Mike just laughed.

"Scared the shit outta me the first time he did it, didn't think I'd be there. Now I just let him in."

"You're assisting a criminal, you realize that. And you want me to _live_ with him?"

"Look, he's not doing any harm; all he does is work on his science stuff and be on his way. I didn't trust him at first either but god is he smart. A bit mad, mind you, but bloody smart. I think you'll like him."

John huffed. "Yeah, right."

"Hey, you'll never be bored."

"So what's his name then? Have you got a photo or something? I think I'd like to know what he looks like before I turn up on his doorstep."

Mike nodded and fished his phone out from his bag, and John waited as he scrolled through what was most likely Facebook. When he came across the right photo, Mike turned the phone towards John so he could see.

"Name's Sherlock Holmes. Odd name to go with an odd man I s'pose."

John wasn't really listening to what his friend was saying. Instead, his mind was being flooded with about a thousand thoughts a second. He recognized the man in the photo; he'd know those curls anywhere, and that big coat and those electric blue eyes. His jaw felt heavy and he could feel it dropping. Mike looked to him in concern.

"Alright?" he asked.

John pointed to the photo. "That's…that's the guy," he practically whispered.

"Who?"

"That bloke who saved me from those muggers, remember? The night my father died. I was completely plastered."

"You're joking," Mike said as he squinted at the picture.

"No that's definitely him. He's the one who saved my arse when I thought it'd be a good idea to use alcohol as a grief counselor."

"Yeah I'll never forget _that_ night. I'd never seen you get so drunk, and then you just wandered off!"

"I'd just gotten the call about my dad that afternoon. What'd you expect, a tea party?"

"Didn't expect you to get shit-faced and beaten half to death in an alley, that's for sure,"

"The point is, I owe that man. He saved my life. I don't care how much of a nutter he is, I'm gonna share a flat with Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

It was an icy morning, the type of cold that eats through the fabric of gloves and sinks into skin. John tugged his scarf around his neck tighter, as if it would block out the inevitable chill. He was striding down the pavement with his hands deep in his jacket pockets, on his way to meet his potential flatmate.

John slowed his step, and checked his phone to make sure he had the right address. The flat was above a small coffee shop, also owned by Mrs. Hudson, as Mike had explained. John peered inside the windows of the storefront and saw a few customers lingering around and absently sipping their caffeinated beverages.

There was a separate entrance to the flat right next to the shop, and so John pocketed his phone and knocked politely on the old wooden door. It wasn't long before he heard a heavy pounding of feet coming down stairs, and not a second later was the door yanked open.

John made split second eye contact with Sherlock, who he now noticed was a good bit taller than him. Sherlock gave John a quick once over, backed up a tad as if to let John in, but stopped him before he even crossed the threshold.

"No." Sherlock said with a hand held out in front of him. "I want the first thing that crossed your mind when I opened the door."

"It smells like a wet sock." John admitted before he could help it. He was about to apologise when Sherlock interrupted him.

"Come on in," he said, with a sly smile.

John shook his head in disbelief and climbed the stairs.

* * *

The walls of the flat were a dull beige, but the eccentric furniture painted the room with colour as if the walls were just a canvas. John looked around as Sherlock hung up their coats.

There was a kitchenette to his right, with barstools by an island instead of a table. There wasn't a stitch of food in sight. The sitting room looked quite like John's current flat; small with a dusty sofa, armchair and a television. The only difference was there was a fireplace. John had fond memories of the warmth and comfortable orange glow of the fireplace from his childhood home. He smiled to himself.

Sherlock motioned for John to take the armchair while he sat on the sofa and crossed his legs as if he were giving an interview.

"I'd offer you tea but I haven't got any," Sherlock said, reading John's mind.

"Er—"

"I usually just get a cuppa from Mrs. Hudson downstairs every morning. You saw the shop she runs, lovely little place full of dull little people, you'll adore it, I'm sure."

"Um—"

"I'll show you the rest of the flat in a moment, I just thought you'd like to sit considering you walked all the way here, plus the fact that you stayed up 'til ungodly hours last night working on a paper for one of your classes, although you still didn't finish. You look tired, how droll, the way normal people need sleep, it always amuses me—"

"S'cuse me, sorry—"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Oh no need for introductions, Mike's already told me your name's John Watson and you're a med student looking for a place to live where you can get a bit more privacy. It's all very boring."

John stared at the man in front of him with the same look of confusion he'd had on the night that Sherlock took out those thugs for him. He was certain it was the same man, he had to be, and yet, Sherlock didn't show an ounce of recognition on his part.

"You don't remember me." John blurted out.

Sherlock knit his eyebrows together and shot John a puzzled look. "Have you given me reason to remember you?" he asked.

"Sorry, what?"

"I remember everything and anything I feel is relevant. All other information is either deemed unimportant and I've chosen not to remember it or I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?" John parroted.

"Problem?"

"You fancy yourself some sort of machine then?"

"It wouldn't be the first time I've heard that analogy."

Anything that John was about to say was quickly dissolved as Sherlock shot up from his seat.

"Come, I'll show you your bedroom. I can already tell you like this flat. Follow me."

John followed him down the hall, and eyed up the average-sized bedroom. He quickly deemed it acceptable and turned his attention towards Sherlock.

"How are you doing that?" he asked.

"Doing what?"

"That thing…you keep telling me things about myself. How d'you know all that? You some kinda stalker?"

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. "I don't stalk, I observe. I take little tidbits of information and put them together to form a larger picture. Simple."

"Brilliant." John smirked, noting that perhaps Mike wasn't exaggerating when he said Sherlock was a genius.

"That's not what people normally say," the taller man noted as he showed John the bathroom.

"And what do they normally say?"

"Fuck off, piss head." He said flatly.

John couldn't help but burst out laughing.

* * *

The morning was quiet. The _earth_ seemed quiet, to John, as he sat by the window in Mrs. Hudson's coffee place, sipping a warm cup of earl grey. One of the best parts of moving in with Sherlock was getting to go into the shop almost as soon as it opened, and getting his tea before the morning rush came in.

The girl at the counter, Molly, was always pleasant to everyone, even through her shy disposition. She had long, mousy hair that was always tied up in a side ponytail, and her secondhand cardigans with quirky patterns on them reminded John of some faraway memory of comfort.

It was hard for him to find comfort most of the time, and so he took it in sips, little bites of warmth like the fireplace in the flat or the tug of his scarf, or the way that everything seemed so untouched in the early hours of day.

He'd only been moved in with Sherlock for a few days, but strangely it felt like he'd never lived anywhere else. Sherlock continued to show no signs of recognizing John from his attack two years ago, and he decided it'd be best to keep quiet about it for now, lest he ruin a relationship that had barely begun.

Sherlock seemed to move around a lot, like he could never be in one place for too long a time. He was always out somewhere, or glued to his phone, and John was oddly determined to get to know the man better.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were pinned in a laser-like focus on the screen of his mobile. He sat with his feet up on the coffee table, his skinny jeans riding up his ankle as they were obviously too short for him.

John was scrunched in on himself in the corner of the sofa, half reading his anatomy textbook. The other half of his attention was focused on the eccentric man next to him. He'd gathered that Sherlock liked to get to the point of things as quick as possible, so John just went for it.

"So, um, tell me something you normally don't tell people." He said.

"My mother was going to name me Sherrinford." Sherlock drawled without even looking up.

John tried not to laugh. "My dad was gonna name me Hamish." He offered.

"I'm going to pretend I care about this conversation."

John frowned minutely and looked to Sherlock's phone.

"Who're you texting?" he asked.

"My dealer,"

This time John did laugh, and slapped a hand on his knee as he got up.

"Ah, so you've a sense of humour after all."

It wasn't until John was fumbling about in the kitchen did Sherlock look up, confused.

"Wait, what?"

"D'you want ramen? S'the only thing I know how to make." John asked as he stood on his tippy toes to reach for a bowl.

"Did you just offer to cook for me?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Not hungry." Sherlock scoffed, going back to his texting.

"Suit yourself," John shrugged.

John went about making his dinner, and nestled himself back into the sofa when he was done. He grabbed the remote, but Sherlock snatched it out of his hand with lightning reflexes and pounded it back onto the table.

"No." he stated simply.

* * *

"And then he just takes the fuckin' remote!" John complained, sitting on the floor of his old flat with Mike, Evan and Marc settled around him.

"What an arse," Marc noted.

"Yeah you're living with a real prick," Evan added, as he continued to make an absolute mess of the biscuits he was eating.

"I see you've stopped stress-tidying." John said. Evan's mouth was too full of food to answer.

"But the rent's cheap, yeah?" Mike asked hopefully.

"You got me there, yeah, plus Mrs. Hudson's a doll, and this girl Molly—"

"Ooh, Molly huh?" Evan teased.

"Oh piss off, s'not like that. She's a sweetheart, seriously, and she's got this massive crush on Sherlock, the poor girl."

"Oh come on, he can't be that bad can he?" Marc asked.

"He's a whirlwind, and I mean that literally, 'cause I've once seem him pace around the room so fast he sent papers flying. I've lived with him almost two weeks and there's still so much I don't about him."

"Like what?"

"Well he's our age, hasn't got a job, doesn't go to school, and he's _still_ hardly ever in the flat. Where the hell does he go? How does he pay half the rent? I can't get a straight answer out of him to save my life."

"Maybe he works for the government," Evan suggested with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah, maybe," John rolled his eyes.

* * *

A/N: I suppose Evan was right about one Holmes working for the government, haha. Anyway, please let me know if you'd like this to continue. I really haven't had the motivation to write lately and so any and all feedback would be helpful.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you guys so much for reviewing, it really means a lot ^^ Here's the next chapter, I hope it's alright but again it hasn't been beta'd so if you see any errors feel free to point them out to me.

* * *

The old, dusty carpet in the sitting room seemed to be the most logical place for John to stretch himself out and do his biology homework. He found that working in a space other than a desk or table helped him to focus more on his task, as he was easily distracted.

John absently put the rubber of his pencil in his mouth and mindlessly chewed on it as he tried to focus on the paragraph he was reading. Unfortunately, his thought process was interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's excited footsteps coming up the stairs.

John hadn't gotten much further in getting to know the important details about Sherlock, such as what he did for a job or when his birthday was, and instead he got to know more obscure things, like how the way he came up the stairs dictated what type of mood he was in. That night, John could tell that Sherlock was in high spirits, and he looked up at the tall man as soon as he entered the flat.

"What are you doing on the floor?" Sherlock asked as he headed over to John, not taking his coat or shoes off.

"I'm seeking out dust mites and destroying them with my mind, what do you think I'm doing?" John quipped, turning grumpily back to his work. He growled angrily at one of the questions he had to answer and tried flipping through the textbook in search of help.

"You're never going to find the answer if you're just skimming, John, you have to actually read." Sherlock advised from his cross-legged position in front of his flatmate.

John dropped his pencil and attempted not to tug too hard on his hair.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm glad you want to help, but seriously, I've got a huge exam on this in two days, plus a quiz tomorrow in psych, and I can't—"

Sherlock suddenly grabbed John's textbook, put it in his lap and began eyeing the pages.

"What're you doing? Give that back!" John protested, reaching out a hand for Sherlock to return his book in.

"Hm, interesting," Sherlock mumbled. He then shot up from the floor, slammed the book shut and started for the door.

"Sherlock! What the hell are—"

"You should get your coat, it's a bit nippy out," he said as he tucked the book under his arm and left the flat.

"Get back here you bastard!" John yelled. He stuffed his feet into his shoes as quick as he could, yanked his jacket off the hook and pulled it on as he ran out the door. Sherlock was already at the bottom of the steps.

"Gonna have to be faster than that, John!" Sherlock challenged, making his way into the chilly night.

John growled in frustration and tried as hard as he could not to smile at this ridiculous chase they now had going. He locked the door with hands shaking in excitement and looked to his right where Sherlock was already a good ways ahead of him. There was no way he was letting him get away, though, so he bolted down the pavement as fast as his legs would allow.

Before John knew it, he was chasing after Sherlock as if the city was nothing more than a large playground. He zigzagged through alleys, hurried past confused onlookers, and almost got tripped up when Sherlock would make a sharp turn. John hadn't even realized he was smiling from ear to ear as he ran; laughing at the way Sherlock's coat billowed dramatically in the wind.

"Slow down, you git!" John shouted.

"You want your education? You're gonna have to work for it!" the taller man teased, waving the book up the air as if it were a prize.

"You're such a prick!" John joked, his voice cracking halfway in a burst of laughter.

Sherlock was running up a rusted spiral staircase now, and there wasn't an ounce of hesitation in John as he followed the man all the way up onto the rooftop.

"You're insane!" he bellowed, starting to pant a bit.

"What's the matter, can't keep up?" Sherlock mocked, still jogging ahead of him somehow.

John just shook his head and prayed that his legs wouldn't give out as he chased his crazed flatmate across the rooftops.

Eventually the pair made it back to solid ground, and Sherlock finally began to slow in his pace, but he didn't stop to wait for John as he pulled open the door of a little Italian place and headed inside.

John stopped completely then, bent over on the pavement with palms splayed out on his knees. He panted heavily, caught his breath, and slowly stepped into the restaurant.

When John entered the cozy, dimly lit space, he was met with the sight of Sherlock sitting at a table by the window, calm, cool and collected. The man's coat was off, he didn't have a hair out of place, and his clothes looked to be in perfect order.

Sherlock looked up from the book in his hands and smiled at John as if he hadn't just run all over the city like a maniac. John couldn't help the laugh that escaped his throat as he sat down.

"This writing is atrocious." Sherlock proclaimed, his voice not wavering in the slightest. John was still getting his breath back.

"Sherlock, what're we doing here?"

The taller man only continued to eye John's textbook.

"This. Is. Dreadful. Absolute rubbish." He tsked.

"No, seriously, what're we doing?" John asked, almost laughing.

"We're having dinner. You looked like you could use a good meal. And an adrenaline rush." He smirked, finally handing John his book back.

"That…that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you moved in with me."

John was sent into a fit of laughter, and Sherlock smiled quietly to himself.

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A/N: Any thoughts on where you'd like to see this go next? I've got a vague plan in my head but suggestions would be cool :) Thanks so much for reading


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I actually got the motivation to write today haha, thanks again for reviewing :) p.s. Skye City, your comment made me smile like an idiot lol thank you ^^

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"So, you two are getting on good I suppose?" Mike asked as he fixed a cup of tea for John.

"Yeah, I mean you'd think I'd be miffed at him for snatching my book like that and making me chase him across town, but I haven't laughed that hard in _ages_, Mike, and then the night ends in a free dinner, how can you beat that?" John grinned.

"Sounds like you're fallin' head over heels for him mate," Mike teased.

"Oh shut it, cupid. He's so interesting though. The other day, outta nowhere he asked me how I feel about the violin; I didn't know what to say to that, then he just whips out the instrument and starts playing like freaking Mozart. It was incredible."

"So when's the wedding?" Mike asked, laughing as the two of them headed over to the sofa.

"I will punch you, don't test me,"

Mike chuckled and sipped his tea. He pushed up his ever-drooping glasses and took on a more somber expression.

"I'm serious though John, you seem to really like him."

"You say that like it's strange."

"Well, it is isn't it?"

John frowned and furrowed his brows. "No, why would it be?"

"He's not exactly the easiest bloke to get on with."

"Neither is Evan and I lived with him for a year and a half." John said. He could've sworn he heard a faint "_I heard that!_" from the bedroom down the hall, but ignored it.

"It's just," Mike started, looking a tad nervous, "you said he didn't remember you at all, from that night two years ago right?"

"No he didn't, but so what? I'm not gonna sound like some lunatic trying to get him to remember."

Mike hummed thoughtfully and ruffled his short brown hair.

"I've just been thinking, John, have you ever thought what on earth he was doing in that alley anyway? I mean, you wandered off to a bad edge of town, real bad, and he just _happened_ to be there too?"

"What are you saying?" John asked slowly.

"I told you, I've just been thinkin'…like how he knew how to break into the labs, and—"

"Oh," John piped up, "_now_ you think he's a criminal! That's what you're saying isn't it? 'Be careful around him John, 'cause I might have fucked up and sent you to live with a serial killer,' is that it?"

"No, no, I'm just—"

"_You_ were the one who said he wasn't doing any harm, you said you trusted him, and now that I'm finally enjoying myself you have to go warning me off him. I told you I owe that man my life, and whether he remembers saving it or not, I'm gonna pay him back by being his friend, because apparently no one else wants to."

John shook his head and got up from the sofa. He was only half listening to Mike's apologies as he slipped his shoes on and tugged his coat around his arms.

"Look, Mike, it's fine, alright? Just let me do this. I don't care if he's mad, I don't care if he's a secret government agent, I'm gonna stick with him."

* * *

John clutched the plastic bag full of takeaway tighter in his hand as he made his way down the darkened streets. He liked to count the streetlights as he walked; it gave him something to focus on when he had too much running around in his head. He'd just reached light number twenty-nine when he approached the door to the flat. He smiled to himself as his chilled fingers unlocked the door, looking forward to having a quiet night in.

After living with Sherlock for over a month, John had become attune to figuring out whether or not Sherlock was in before he even opened the door. Normally, if his eccentric flatmate was home, he'd hear him pacing holes in the floor, or muttering things to himself, and he somehow even managed to make noise when he was in a strop.

That night, John had heard no noise as he climbed the stairs, so it was safe to say it was a bit of a shock when he opened the door and found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, bent over the coffee table.

"I didn't think you'd be in toni—"John's voice completely faltered as soon as he saw what Sherlock was concentrating so hard on. There were three distinct lines of cocaine arranged on the coffee table, and Sherlock barely spared John a glance as he continued to chop up the powdery substance with a razor.

John's jaw went slack, and he waited until his breathing was back to normal before he spoke up again.

"Oh, my god," he started, "you really…"

Sherlock looked up at him now, squinting at him. "I really what, John?" he asked, a darker tone laced in his words.

"The first week I moved in here, I asked who you were texting, and you said your dealer. I thought you were joking."

"Do I look like the type that enjoys a good laugh?"

"You look like the type that could use one."

"I'm not laughing now, am I?"

"No, neither am I." John frowned. He set the takeaway down on the counter, suddenly no longer very hungry. He slid off his jacket, toed off his shoes and tried to ignore the telltale sounds of Sherlock doing a line behind his back.

When he was all sorted, John stepped further into the sitting room and put his hands on his hips, trying to think of what exactly he should say next. Sherlock, however, beat him to the punch.

"I suppose I should've mentioned this a bit earlier." He said, his voice sounding a little more enthusiastic thanks to the drug-induced euphoria he was no doubt beginning to experience. "Won't be a problem, will it?"

"A pro…a problem?" John asked breathlessly. "Yes it's a bloody problem! You didn't think to say, 'John, how do you feel about the violin? I play sometimes when I'm thinking oh and I also _do lines of coke_ in the sitting room when I fancy it.' Seriously, you couldn't have let me in on that little tidbit?"

"John, it's honestly not a big deal," Sherlock assured with the flop of a hand.

"Not a big—"

"I'm not addicted, it's a nonissue. It just helps me clear my head, alright? I need it sometimes."

"Oh, so this is purely for relaxation purposes. Right. You snort cocaine like someone would drink a cuppa?"

"No actually I put coke _in_ the tea. Would you like a cup?"

"Now you're just taking the piss."

"A sound observation,"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He didn't know whether to delve into a lecture on how much damage Sherlock could do to his nasal passages, and fifty other things, or just let the man be and act as if this never happened.

"Maybe Mike was right after all," John mumbled to himself in disbelief.

"What was that?"

"My friend, Sherlock, he warned me about you."

"Your friend is smarter than I imagined." Sherlock stated. He leaned back into the sofa; arms and legs stretched out, and practically grinned to himself as the drugs took effect.

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A/N: Hmm..I dunno about this, usually I've got such a clear plan of where I want my stories to go but with this one it seems like nothing feels right. Suggestions and corrections are always welcome, thanks so much for stopping by (:


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hey guys, sorry I haven't updated in a few days, I just haven't been feeling any inspiration. To **Aria Mai Olican-Wren**: I agree about the razor thing, I was thinking about having him sort of do both methods, if that makes sense, since he's still experimenting and indecisive. And to **ArthurDent2**: I'm glad you like the title, I thought of it randomly a while ago but it turns out there's a book with the same name haha. And thanks to everyone else who reviewed and favorited :)

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"Why do you do it?" John asked out of the blue, about a week after he'd caught Sherlock using.

The taller man only continued to stare at the huge array of science equipment he had spread out on the coffee table and, to John's dismay, the floor. He looked to be organising and labeling his things, which John at least thought was productive.

With the question still lingering in the air, John steeled himself and cleared his throat.

"Alright, different question. How _often_ do you er, y'know, how often do you use, Sherlock?"

There wasn't even a noncommittal grunt from his curly-haired flatmate.

"Are you gonna answer any of my questions?" John pleaded.

"I'll answer your questions when they stop being stupid."

"There's no such thing as a stupid question."

"Yes, only stupid people."

"_Sherlock_," John scolded.

If John heard right, he could've sworn that Sherlock let out a breathy laugh.

"I'm serious," John continued, "I'm your fri—"

Sherlock suddenly whipped his head around to stare daggers at John.

"Your flatmate," the blond corrected, "and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit…concerned."

Sherlock bit his lip, practically snarled and turned back to his work.

"People are not concerned for me, John. They are either frightened or offended, there is no in between. I don't care for people, people don't care for me. It's a mutual agreement."

John wanted to argue about the other night, when Sherlock had him chase him around the city just to distract him from his mountain of schoolwork and give him a decent meal. That certainly seemed like caring, in John's head, at least to some extent. Sherlock, however, had gone on with his daily habits as if the night had never happened.

"You think I'm frightened of you?" John settled on asking.

"Well, you certainly don't seem offended. In fact when I first deduced things about you, you said 'brilliant.'"

John stared out the window for the moment, into the misty night air. He pursed his lips and sat forward a bit in his armchair, almost hovering over Sherlock who was sat cross-legged on the floor.

"And that leads you to believe that I'm scared of you."

Sherlock shrugged. "Let's face it, you are, a bit. Especially after learning about my er, habits."

"If I was scared of you, I wouldn't have moved in." John argued.

Sherlock was silent for a minute or so after that. Only the sounds of clinking beakers and test tubes filled the flat as he sorted through all his things.

"John, let me see your phone," Sherlock said flatly, holding out his palm expectantly.

Already used to Sherlock's strange demands, John found himself fishing in his pocket, pulling out his mobile and dropping into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock grasped it and stood up from the floor.

"You see? You didn't argue with me, just handed me your phone, no questions asked." Sherlock smirked as he headed over to the kitchen.

"Wait hang on, that does not mean I'm _frightened_ of you! You're always asking me to do things—"

"And you always do them." Sherlock interjected. He then reached up on his toes and placed John's phone atop the highest cupboard. "Which is never a very good idea."

"Oh come on, that's just cruel." John said as he went to stand by the cupboard, obviously too short to reach anywhere near the top.

"Maybe that'll teach you to stand up for yourself," Sherlock offered, sitting back down to his science equipment.

John silently fumed in the kitchen, balling his hands into fists and grinding his teeth.

"You know what? Sod this," he snapped, "two can play at this game." And before Sherlock could even blink, John was at his side, reaching into his jacket pocket and snatching out his phone.

"John!" the taller man protested. "This is childish!"

"Says the person who did it first!"

Sherlock quickly stood back up and hurried over to John, who was now threateningly holding his mobile by the lit fireplace. Before Sherlock could try to take the phone back, John held out an authoritative hand to stop him.

"I'll do it," he said sternly, "I swear to it, I'll do it."

"You wouldn't." Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth, his face suddenly uncomfortable close to John's. They glared at each other with almost as much heat as the fire just below John's hand.

"You think now's the time to test me?" he asked. Sherlock said nothing, so John pointed at the cupboards with his free hand.

"Go and get mine." He ordered with a strictness that Sherlock had yet to see in him.

To John's surprise, Sherlock straightened right back up and calmly retrieved John's phone.

"There," he said as he handed the mobile back to John, "now you know how to stand up for yourself."

"I always knew—"

"How to stand up to me," Sherlock corrected.

"I didn't—"

"And stop asking stupid questions, it's unbecoming."

Somehow, John found himself smiling fondly at the man as he clasped his hands behind his back and left the room. There was a certain elegance to Sherlock's madness, John knew there was, though he couldn't quite place it.

"I will figure you out one day, Sherlock Holmes, god help me." John mused to himself.

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A/N: Okay so like I said, I haven't been feeling very inspired lately, and with this story I keep falling short for ideas. That's why I'm gonna take a break from it, though I'm not sure if I'll come back to it. I've got some other plot bunnies that've been bugging me, but even so, I probably won't upload anything for a good long while :(

Thanks again to everyone who commented and followed and favorited, you guys are so awesome and I should bake you all cookies :D Hope you have a lovely day ^^ -Ash


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